


Of Empty Men

by starsinursa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Basically they fight and then they fuck, Biting, Bottom Dean, But not really because Dean is into it, Choking, Clothed Sex, Come as Lube, Explicit Sexual Content, Fight Sex, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, No Fluff, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostate Massage, Rimming, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Spit As Lube, Table Sex, This is the filthiest thing I've written so far, Top Castiel, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, literally none
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 12:11:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11623263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsinursa/pseuds/starsinursa
Summary: Castiel may be the match and Dean may be the gunpowder, but they burn together.





	Of Empty Men

**Author's Note:**

> This was a commission for my friend, [magnificent-winged-beast](https://magnificent-winged-beast.tumblr.com/), who requested "Endverse smut". Behold, the filthiest thing I've ever written! :)
> 
> The title is a line from [a poem by T.S. Eliot](https://allpoetry.com/The-Hollow-Men).
> 
> EDIT: now with amazing fanart by [saawek](http://saawek.tumblr.com/)!

_This is the way the world ends,_  
_Not with a bang but a whimper._  
\- T.S. Eliot

It doesn’t happen often. 

Well, not anymore, at least.

It only happens on the bad days, the truly gone-to-shit days, the days when a mission fails spectacularly or when new reports have trickled into the camp about Lucifer’s movements.

Castiel can tell when it’s going to be one of those days; he learned to recognize them a long time ago. He can see them in the tight, iron lines at the corners of Dean’s eyes, in the brittle stride of his long legs like an animal pacing in its cage. He can see it in the subtle warp of Dean’s aura, shimmering like heat rising from the pavement. 

Everyone else avoids Dean on days like this. It's obvious that he's an explosion waiting to happen, like striking a match at gunpowder, and those who don’t want to get burned stay away.

But Castiel – well, he’s a glutton for punishment, and on days like today, he goes to Dean.

He doesn’t bother knocking, just toes open the screen door with a booted foot and lets it lazily swing open. Inside, Dean is standing leaning over the table, and he looks up at the creak of the door. His face is stony and cautious, and his expression doesn’t change when he sees that it’s Castiel.

“Well,” Castiel drawls. He steps inside and lets the door arc shut behind him, tapping lightly against the frame. “May I offer my congratulations on another flawlessly executed mission?”

“Fuck off, Cas.” Dean’s voice is dangerously flat. “I’m not in the mood for your shit today.”

Castiel can’t help but chuckle. It's not a nice sound. "What else is new?"

He crosses the room to stand beside Dean at the table, barely sparing a glance for the maps spread out across the top. He’s antsy and sober and he hates it, even though it's a necessity. He needs all his faculties about him on days like today, because if he’s ever stupid enough to go head-to-head with Dean while under the influence, he has no doubt that Dean will kick his ass to the curb and right out of the cabin, and that would be unacceptable. But for now, it means he’s uncomfortably dry, aching for a hit.

He leans against the edge of the table and crosses his legs, hooking one boot over the other. “Tell me, did you plan to lose three people to Croats today, or was that just a bonus to letting the demon escape?”

Dean’s lips are pressed together in an angry line, but it’s his eyes that have Castiel is transfixed. They’re locked onto him, flashing dangerously, and this - 

\- yes, _this_ is why he's here, sober, with a craving so strong that he feels hollow with the inability to feel anything else. This is why he keeps coming back like a moth to a flame, heedless of getting burned. Those green eyes fixed upon him, every ounce of Dean’s scrutiny ocused solely on him, only him – it’s equal to a hit. Having Dean’s undivided attention is like standing in the sunlight, simultaneously burning him and lighting him up. It’s a feeling he used to know, back before the world started ending and Dean’s eyes started sliding past him, always fixated at some point unseen in the distance. 

That gaze on him now primes him, makes his veins flutter and his muscles tense, quickens his breathing. He’s never found a drug that compares to Dean, or a withdrawal that’s worse. 

“Leave, Cas,” Dean says, voice low. “I mean it.”

That's laughable. Of course he does. Dean always mean it, and that’s what Castiel is counting on.

He can feel a smirk pulling at his lips, but it feels sharp and empty. “Or what? What will do you?”

Dean stares him down and Castiel meets his eyes, unflinching and eager. Dean’s on the verge of making a move, body taut with intention, and Castiel braces himself – but then, with a dismissive sound, Dean turns away back to the table. His eyes slide away from Castiel as if he's disappeared, and Castiel is in danger of becoming invisible again.

“Our fearless leader,” he murmurs. The disappointment settles sour in his stomach.

Those words are the match dropped into gunpowder, and Dean moves. Castiel watches in fascination, and it's almost as if it’s happening in slow motion. He's acutely aware of the couple of seconds that it takes for the words to register; the subsequent stiffening in Dean’s shoulders; the downward drag of his eyelashes as his eyes narrow; the scrape of a boot on the wooden floor as he turns on his heel.

Dean’s arm comes around in a swing and Castiel lurches away, blood pounding in his ears. Dean recovers and swings again, but this time Castiel blocks it and drives a fist into Dean’s kidney as he turns.

“Fuck!” Dean staggers but spins, reaching for him, and gets his fists in Castiel’s shirt. He propels them forward until Castiel hits the table, the edge digging hard into his skin, and then the rough, welcome rasp of Dean’s fingers close around his throat.

The fingers squeeze and Castiel gasps, but doesn’t fight it. He lifts his chin, baring his neck better for the tight squeeze of Dean’s fingers, searching out Dean’s eyes. That’s how they stand, frozen, until Castiel’s lungs start to burn and his lips twitch against his will with the need for a breath. Dean breaks eye contact, eyes flicking down to Castiel’s mouth –

\- that's his signal, and Castiel moves. He knocks Dean’s hand away from his throat, sucking in a gasp of air and darting out a hand to grip the back of Dean’s neck in an iron vice. He yanks Dean forward, twisting out of the way, and Dean staggers forward against the table with a hard grunt. Castiel is immediately behind him, broad hands holding him down, one gripping the base of his skull and the other unyielding between his shoulder blades. 

Dean bucks. He always does, but Castiel rolls with it. 

“Cas! You sorry fucker–“

He twists and writhes, furious, but Castiel was a warrior once. He may be weak now, stuck in this sluggish, inefficient body, but he has instincts and muscle memories that span millenniums. Occasionally, when the needs calls for it, he can become a warrior again. For Dean, he does so.

Dean is a stubborn ass and continues to fight until the moment Castiel presses flush against his back, mouthing a kiss to the back of his neck above his shirt. His tongue touches skin, tasting, and Dean’s cursing trails off with a sudden hitch of his breath. When Castiel stretches further and bites of the shell of Dean’s ear, he’s rewarded with a groan that he can feel through Dean’s torso as much as hear.

It’s been a long time, and Castiel craves it. He groans when Dean presses back, grinding his ass against Castiel’s crotch. He’s already hard, he’s been hard from the moment Dean’s hand closed over his throat, and the friction is heady and overwhelming and not nearly enough.

When Dean twists partly onto his side to glance back at him, Castiel brings a hand around to skim Dean’s chest over his shirt. Dean’s panting lowly, arching into Castiel’s touch, and Castiel pauses just long enough to shove Dean’s shirt up his back, letting it ruck up under his armpits. He slides his hand over bare skin, swiping his thumb roughly across a nipple, and is rewarded with a full body shudder. He can feel the nipple pebbling under his touch and he swipes again, pinches hard, and Dean swears and jerks. Releasing his hold on Dean’s neck so he can tease at the other nipple, already peaked with sympathy arousal, he flicks the blunt edge of his thumbnail against it, again and again, until Dean is writhing in frustration and supplication.

Dean’s back is gorgeous, an expanse of lightly freckled skin stretched out in front of him, and he bends forward to place a kiss against Dean’s spine on reflex. It’s a mistake, it’s too tender, and he feels Dean stiffen, but he recovers by skating his hands away from Dean’s chest and down his sides to distract him. He presses his thumbs into the divots in Dean’s lower back, reaches around to unceremoniously undo the button on Dean’s jeans. 

As soon as he feels the button give, the zipper grinding down, he hooks his fingers under the waistband and pulls jeans and boxers down as far as they’ll go, down past the curve of Dean’s ass. They bunch and catch around his thighs, trapped, courtesy of the thigh holster pinning Dean’s jeans to his leg.

Castiel slides his hands down to Dean’s ass, grabbing, spreading him, blunt nails digging against the skin as he gives a brief squeeze and releases. The jeans snagged around Dean’s thighs are hindering, and he takes a moment to lean back and kick Dean’s feet farther apart. 

Slowly, palming Dean’s ass in one hand to ground himself, he sinks to a knee behind him. He’s at eye-level with Dean’s ass now, Dean fidgeting impatiently where he’s bent over the table, and Castiel runs his fingertips down Dean’s crack to circle at his hole. Dean twitches, stifles a moan against the table, and Castiel does it again, rubbing the pad of his thumb across the tight ring of muscle. When he slips in a fingertip and Dean pushes impatiently back against him, he leans forward and darts out his tongue. Dean jerks hard at that, but Castiel holds him firm with a grip on his thighs and does it again, blowing a puff of warm air, spearing his tongue forward to tease.

He adds his fingers again, using generous amounts of spit to wet his fingers and ease their way, first just one, then a second and finally a third. Between fucking Dean with his fingers, he uses his tongue, probing with the point, laving softly with the flat of it, only pulling back so he can finally slip in two fingers up to the last joint and search for Dean’s prostate. 

It’s obvious when he finds it because Dean swears loudly and there’s a thunk – Dean’s forehead falling forward against the tabletop. The muscles in his thighs are quivering, clenching and unclenching, but Castiel is ruthless. He rubs his fingers against Dean’s prostate, rolling his fingertips over it again and again, keeping up a slow but brutal rhythm. Sliding a hand around, he runs his palm up the hard length of Dean’s cock, neglected, and feels it jump eagerly in his hand.

Dean’s voice is rough, muffled against the table. “Ahh - fuck, Cas, you gotta stop, or I’m gonna –“

He ignores the warning, instead sinking his teeth gently into the skin of Dean’s ass and twisting his loose fist around the head of Dean’s dick. Dean’s hands start to scrabble at the tabletop, one finding the edge and clenching around it tightly, and moments later he’s coming in long spurts inside Castiel’s fist. His head snaps up, tipping back and baring his neck as he groans, the muscles in his legs clenching and jumping as Castiel milks him through it.

Dean’s barely coming down, the rigid bend of his spine just starting to ease and droop him back towards the table, before Castiel changes hands and slides two fingers back into Dean’s ass, this time slick with Dean’s own come.

He jerks, stuttering out a gasp, probably oversensitive, but Castiel fucks his fingers into him anyway, stretching him again. He rubs Dean’s own come into his hole, pressing his slick thumb in circles around the tight ring of muscle. One-handed, he fumbles to push his own pants down around his thighs. His cock bobs free, flushed with arousal and curving eagerly up towards his stomach.

He takes his hand away from Dean’s ass just long enough to fish in a pocket for a condom, tearing it open and rolling it on. He spares a moment to be grateful for pre-lubricated condoms, because fuck knows lube is a luxury these days that none of them can afford. Of course, all of the condoms expired about two years ago, but there's no helping that. The lube's not nearly enough, it won’t be comfortable, but Dean likes the burn. Dean doesn’t care, and if Dean doesn’t care, then Castiel doesn’t care, _can’t_ care.

Dean’s skin is on fire, slick with sweat, and Castiel slides his dick against that warmth first, rubbing it teasingly down Dean’s crack. He does it slowly, enjoying the delicious drag of skin and the way that the muscles in Dean’s ass flex. Dean throws an impatient glare at him over his shoulder.

“Jesus, Cas, just fuck me already or get the fuck out –“

Castiel obliges. He slides his dick down, grasping it at the base, and pushes forward to press it bluntly against Dean’s hole. There’s a moment of resistance and then Dean relaxes, and Castiel sinks forward in one long, excruciating movement, burying himself until he’s up to the hilt, balls snug against Dean’s ass. He forces himself to hold there for a long moment, a groan starting in his chest, savoring it - it’s heaven and hell, torture and bliss. 

Dean shifts under him, urging him to move, but Castiel grips his sides tightly. Groaning in frustration, Dean slams the flat of his palm onto the table. 

“Fuck, Cas, c’mon!" he barks. "Move!”

“Patience, Dean,” Castiel chides. It’s been so long, he wants to take a moment to relearn the feeling of Dean around him - 

Dean does wait – for about two seconds, and then he clenches his ass and tightens around Castiel’s dick in a sublimely excruciating vice. Castiel gasps raggedly, the sound punching out of him, and then he gives in, slamming into Dean’s ass and starting to fuck him in earnest.

Hands braced on the table, Dean starts to lift up, but Castiel throws his weight forward and levers one forearm against Dean’s back, forcing him down. He snakes out his other hand and catches Dean by the hair at the back of his head, forcing his head back sharply, exposing the column of Dean’s throat and bobbing Adam’s apple as he swallows, lips parted as he pants.

It’s probably the most uncomfortable fuck Castiel’s ever had, probably for Dean as well, and it’s exquisite. The hard edge of the table is undoubtedly biting into Dean’s thighs, Castiel’s fingers are cramping from his grip on Dean’s hair, but Castiel thinks he could do this forever, just like this – fucking Dean over a table in some dirty cabin without a damn about the rest of the world.

Dean’s already gotten off once, but he’s groaning with each thrust of Castiel’s hips, starting to rut down against the table. Releasing his hair, Castiel fumbles a hand underneath him and finds Dean’s cock half-hard again. He pumps it gently, coaxing, and soon enough it’s swelling in his fingers and Dean’s fully hard in his palm again.

He can feel Dean shaking minutely, strained with the effort of keeping himself spread open for Castiel with his jeans caught against his thighs. Castiel widens his own stance a little, thrusting more shallowly. He does his best to jerk Dean’s cock in time with his thrusts, slipping the pad of his thumb up over the head again and again.

When Castiel comes, it’s with the relief and euphoria of a fix – one moment he’s waiting for the feeling to hit, and the next moment he’s already high without realizing when it happened. He’s bent over before he knows it's happening, gasping into the skin of Dean’s back. His hips jerk in desperate, stilted movements, his dick surrounded by the tight heat of Dean’s ass. 

When his thrusts start to stagger and slow, awareness creeping back to him, he realizes that his fingers are still loose around Dean’s dick, unmoving. He remedies this now, stroking his cock again reverently, and sinks his teeth into the meat of Dean’s shoulder.

Dean comes with his forehead pressed flat against the table and a ragged gasp tearing out of his throat, body alternatively seizing up and spasming in a beautiful display of movement and stillness. He comes in Castiel’s fingers again, less than before, pulsing more sluggishly into his fist.

Almost immediately Dean pulls away from Castiel’s hand, oversensitive, and the movement causes Castiel’s softened dick to slide out. Reluctantly, Castiel straightens up and breaks the contact between them so he can slip off the condom and tie it, wrinkling his nose distastefully. He wipes his hands on the hem of his shirt, uncaring.

His hands have barely left Dean’s skin before Dean is straightening up, pulling up his jeans and tugging down his shirt. Slowly, regretfully, Castiel does the same, tucking himself away and doing up his pants. Dean's not looking at him anymore, eyes sliding past him, and Castiel thinks this is the worst part of addiction - that once the high fades, it leaves him aching and wanting even more than before, chasing a feeling that never lasts.

"We're doing a dry run outside the city tomorrow," Dean says calmly, as if nothing happened, but Castiel knows differently. Some of the tension in Dean's body is gone and his aura has faded down to a low, more familiar simmer. This is why Dean goes along with Castiel's cravings on days like today - because Castiel may be the match and Dean may be the gunpowder, but they burn together. "Make sure you're ready to go by 0600."

Dean leaves without looking back, screen door tapping shut behind him, and Castiel thinks he needs a drink.


End file.
